


Sacrifices

by afterandalasia



Category: Aladdin (1992), Aladdin: The Animated Series
Genre: Action & Romance, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anti-Hero, Community: disney_kink, Dark Magic, Developing Relationship, Land of the Black Sands, Loyalty, M/M, Politics, References to Ancient Arabian Religion & Lore, Villain Death, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 13:08:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2151858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afterandalasia/pseuds/afterandalasia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aladdin is the one pawn that Mozenrath will not sacrifice, the one person that he will not betray.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sacrifices

**Author's Note:**

> From the great [anon prompt](http://disney-kink.livejournal.com/9516.html?thread=5295660#t5295660) on the Disney Kink meme, worded exactly as is the summary of this fic. It actually drew on other Aladdin/Mozenrath prompts as well, but this was the first and last to which it returned.

There are always sacrifices to be made in a game. Whether it is quirkat, tiles leaping back and forth over each other on a board, or the movement of soldiers across the battlefields of the Land of the Black Sands. Sacrifice to conquer. Give up one square to take five more.

It is not that war is a game. It is that Mozenrath cannot imagine a game as anything less than a war.

 

 

He found Aladdin in the dungeons of Agrabah's Palace. Of course, the boy had been wary of accepting Mozenrath's offer for escape - but there had been no alternative. And, on this occasion, Mozenrath he kept his word.

He showed Aladdin the vast plains of his land, told of the sorcerer Destane who ruled them.

"Is he cruel?" said Aladdin.

"Yes."

"Would you be?"

Mozenrath had considered the question at length, and was able to answer honestly. "Starving people cannot till the fields. Slaves cannot make a country great. Cruelty is counter-productive."

Aladdin looked at the parched fields, the hollow-eyed people with their thin faces and raw hands. He agreed.

 

 

Aladdin never did take well to quirkat. He cared too much for each piece, cannot bring himself to sacrifice them to win. He may have been one of the better opponents that Mozenrath has had, but he would never be great.

(Sometimes, Mozenrath wondered what it would have been like if the world had been a little different, if they had been enemies instead.)

On the battlefield, though, he was by far the better, and with a sword in his hand and a horse to ride he cut a dashing figure indeed. Mozenrath had always disdained physical violence, but in Aladdin he came to see that sometimes it was physical _skill_ , in its own way just as elegant as the weave of magic.

The villagers would not have bowed to Mozenrath, but Aladdin they greet with open arms, as if he is the one who has freed them. It makes him uncomfortable.

"Let them love you," said Mozenrath. "Let them tell you what they need, then you may tell me."

He did not care for love of the people. Power over them would be enough. Let Aladdin be the figurehead.

 

 

He saw to it that the wells of his villages had water, that the war was waged away from their fields. For that, they called him a good leader. How remarkably easy.

 

 

Aladdin was reluctant, at first, to take to the field with mamluk soldiers at his heels.

"This is necromancy," he said.

"This is saving the living from the battlefield," replied Mozenrath. "I do not intend to throw the living after the dead."

Mamluks are slower, more stupid, but they do not feel pain and they strike fear into the enemy. Destane's human army scattered at the sight of them.

"Very well," Aladdin condeded. "They will save lives."

 

 

As his human armies proved insufficient, Destane's desperation grew. He sent out creatures against them, rocs and unkhbut and barely-controlled afarit that roared and lashed against invisible chains of magic. The citadel came into sight on the horizon, and Mozenrath felt his ambition smoulder to a flame.

In the end, he had to take to the field himself, casting spells that would hold back the afirit, summoning winds that would make even the rocs struggle. Aladdin rode at the front of the army still, a sword in his hand, mamluks making up most of his troops but still with some units of living men at the edges, men who had pledged themselves to removing Destane from power.

As they marched closer, Destane sent out a creature by which even Mozenrath was impressed, a construct woven together from rotting flesh, twenty-foot tall and with innumerable arms, maws gaping from the seams of its body. Aladdin stood alone before it, even when his horse was crushed by the strength of the construct, and cut it down.

Afterwards, he vomited out of sight of the men and hugged his arms around himself. Mozenrath put an uncertain hand - his good one, not the one which he had long since sacrificed - on the boy's back.

"He must be destroyed," said Aladdin, through gritted teeth. There was a flash of darkness in the boy's eyes that went straight to his soul and straight to Mozenrath's gut. A desire for _vengeance_ as well as for justice, just a fragment of anger and resentment.

"He will be," Mozenrath promised, leaning in close enough that his lips brushed against Aladdin's ear.

 

 

He was never quite sure how it was that they became lovers. Of course, 'lovers' itself has an absurdity about it, and the first time that Mozenrath caught himself thinking the word he almost laughed out loud. But Aladdin had returned from a reconnaissance one day grim-faced and hollow-eyed, said something about a village slaughtered and the bodies mutilated. He had grabbed Mozenrath so fiercely that at first Mozenrath thought this was to become a fight, that Aladdin had broken and would support him no longer, but before he could do anything in defence lips were crushing to his in a kiss.

Mozenrath had never cared for the thought of being kissed before. But Aladdin was like a storm, clutching at him, reaching for his skin, and before Mozenrath knew it there were hands sliding beneath clothes, mouths tracing skin, and it was not until Aladdin tried to slide off the gauntlet that Mozenrath pulled away with a shudder.

"No," he said. "Not that."

Aladdin's cheeks were flushed, his hair askew. The look suited him. "What are you hiding?" he said.

A bitter laugh forced its way from Mozenrath's lips. "You march before an army of my dead and have seen me cast magic against the man who was once my master. What have I left to hide?"

"Then remove the glove."

Slowly, Mozenrath did so, to reveal the ice-white bones that had once been his hands. Aladdin looked at them for a long, slow moment, then turned his eyes back to Mozenrath's again. "I wondered what sacrifices you would be willing to make," he said quietly, and left before Mozenrath could ask anything more.

 

 

One in four of the men who followed Mozenrath died before they reached the foot of the citadel. His constructs of fire or ice or sand cut swathes through Destane's army, yes, but they too were eventually consumed. Mozenrath watched the bones of his wrist emerge from his flesh, and made plans for a longer gauntlet to be made.

Aladdin did not fall. Of course, that was largely his own doing, his skill in fighting and his bravery, but Mozenrath always ensured that he had a little magic held back to protect him, one more spell on the tip of his tongue that would cut down anything that came near. When Aladdin was injured, Mozenrath would order him to sit and tend to his wounds, whether it be with bandages or with magic; the magic was faster, would not fester, but it hurt so much that Aladdin's knuckles would crack as he held back the urge to scream.

"Stay outside," said Mozenrath, as they stood outside the door. "This is a matter of magic now."

Aladdin's eyes burned. "No," he replied. "I will not let you go in there unprotected."

For a moment their eyes locked, and Mozenrath felt the tugging at his will, the actual desire to accede to Aladdin where he would have stood firm with any other.

The months had been kind to Aladdin. They had bought out the muscles in his arms and taken away the hunger in his cheeks. Mozenrath had seen to it that he was better dressed, even armoured when he took to the field, and that he wielded fine weapons. They may not have been magical, but the sword which Aladdin currently carried was charmed and warded such that it could not cause harm to him. True, his hair needed cutting, and he still went barefoot far too often for Mozenrath's liking, but he would have barely recognised the streetrat now.

"Very well," he said finally. Perhaps it was only right that they finished this together.

 

 

The halls of the tower were empty and cold, the torches on the walls extinguished and refusing to light even when Mozenrath put his hand beside them and willed them to. Instead he raised a globe of light in his hand, and used it to light their way through the citadel.

Each footstep echoed. Aladdin was wary, hand on the hilt of his sword, but Mozenrath had his own suspicions. Whatever Destane had planned, he was holding back his magic for it.

Mozenrath had spent years in these halls, years of learning and training before Destane came to fear that his student might be his match or his better. He knew the path to the throne-room well, and led them straight there.

The doors were open.

As Mozenrath went to step towards them, Aladdin threw an arm out. "This is a trap," he said flatly.

"I know," said Mozenrath. "And our knowing rather defeats the point of it."

Light flared in the throne-room, grey-white and burning cold. "Enter, Mozenrath," boomed the hollow-stone voice of Destane. Mozenrath's lips curled into a mirthless smile. "And so it begins."

 

 

He entered the throne room with Aladdin at his left hand, one step behind, and let the globe of light that he held flicker out. "Destane," he said coolly. "It has been so long."

"Not long enough." A powerful figure sat upon the throne, barrel-chested and golden-skinned, the muscles on its arms bulging. A huge golden scimitar lay across its lap, and around its neck was a great collar glittering with magical stones.

With a snap of his fingers, Mozenrath dispelled the illusion. Destane reappeared, an old thin man with a wiry white beard and the spots of age upon his skeletal hands. The only thing upon his lap was the obsidian wand through which he had always channelled his power.

"Perhaps not," said Mozenrath. "But then again, a little longer and I might not have been able to greet you at all."

Destane's breath rattled. He had been a great sorceror once, when he was young and vibrant, but he had tried to hold back from making any sacrifice for his magic. Magic always found a way. He was barely forty years old, but his body was that of a man twice that. In the eight years that Mozenrath had been under his tutelage, Destane had aged twenty. He did not reply.

"Though of course, you did plan to take my body instead," Mozenrath continued, offhand."I am surprised that you did not attempt to find another protege, perhaps a more foolish one, instead."

"I knew that you would come back," said Destane, eyes glittering. The doors slammed closed behind them; Aladdin whirled, but Mozenrath did not flinch. "The sand calls to you, your power comes from here. You could not keep away."

"My power is not tethered," said Mozenrath.

Around them, the shadows of the pillars were thickening, coalescing into creatures with silver eyes and shining black fangs. Shadow-talons clicked on the floor as they circled, and Aladdin shifted so that his back was to Mozenrath, drawing his sword.

Mozenrath raised his right hand, clenching it so that the bones beneath the gauntlet clicked together. "And you, Destane, are alone."

Destane's lip curled to a snarl, and his hand twitched against the obsidian wand. The creatures attacked.

Magic flashed from Mozenrath’s hands, slicing through them wherever it struck; Aladdin’s sword cut through them with the power of the charms upon it. Still they poured forwards, shadows made solid and springing from the walls. Cold sweat beaded on Mozenrath’s brow, and his breathing came faster, and he did not even notice that Aladdin was not at his back until he felt the bite of a blade against the base of his neck and fell still.

The shadows swirled away from him again. Aladdin was pinned to the ground, sword torn from his hand, scratches on his chest and his cheek seeping blood. One of the things was swirled above him, hunched over, its features a twisted mockery of a human’s but the teeth too large, the ears too far back, the eyes too narrow. It leered over him, one set of claws at his throat and teeth bared. Other shadows were wrapped around his wrists, his ankles, pinning him to the ground so that he could hardly struggle against them.

“Not as alone as you thought,” said Destane. His breath stank of asafoetida, the point of his wand pressed against Mozenrath’s skin sharp enough that Mozenrath felt blood trickling down the back of his neck. “Use your magic to kill me, and they will tear him apart.”

Aladdin fell still, chest heaving with exertion, as the creature on his chest pressed its claws a little harder against his skin. Fresh blood welled up.

The blade pressed slightly harder against his neck, and Mozenrath tried not to stumble forwards. It would be so easy to whirl with the magic in his hand, take hold of Destane’s neck with his gauntlet and drain the life out of him. It might even give Mozenrath back a few years, an inch or two more flesh on his arm. But Destane spoke the truth – he had always been so prim about that, as if by refraining from lying he could somehow make up for everything that he had done to the Land of the Black Sands. If Mozenrath killed Destane, Aladdin would be in pieces before he could turn to perform magic once again.

The men that Mozenrath had left dead on the battlefields, the years that he had spent in training, the pain that bit through him each time that a little more magic claimed a little more of his flesh... he will not have it be for nothing. He cannot let those sacrifices go to waste. And Destane offers him a choice: a kingdom, or Aladdin’s life. One more wash of blood upon his hands should be nothing compared to what has gone before.

He lunged forwards, lashing out with his magic and destroying the remaining shadow-creatures in a burst of lightning-bright fire. Destane’s wand slashed down his back, as sharp as a knife, and he heard it scrape against bone as the old man screamed in fury. The pain was bright and fierce, but nothing to that of the gauntlet, and Mozenrath was still on his feet as he whirled and grabbed the man by the throat, wrapping the gauntlet around his neck. Destane was so thin that Mozenrath’s hand seemed to wrap almost all of the way around, and he screamed as darkness filled his eyes and his body collapsed in, withering from the inside out.

Ashes trickled to the floor from Mozenrath’s clenched fist. Distantly, he was aware that blood was running down his back, pooling on the floor at his feet, but then his legs gave way and he would have hit the floor had arms not caught him. He looked round in confusion only to see Aladdin, remember, and laugh with the taste of blood in his mouth.

“There are healers among the men,” said Aladdin. “I will get them, just let me...”

“No,” said Mozenrath. He groped with his left hand until he found the obsidian wand that Destane had dropped, gripping it so tightly that it cut into his skin. Breathing a spell, he bought it to his chest, and then in a flash of heat the magic it contained burst free.

A tongue of fire lashed down his back, right down the line of the wound, worse than anything that the gauntlet had ever offered. Mozenrath screamed, back arching as his flesh grew together again, heart pounding so hard that he thought it would burst against his ribs, the pain not even coming in waves but in one terrible wall that seemed to go on forever.

Then, in a moment, it was gone. He felt weakly empty in its aftermath, and clung to the arm that propped him on his knees, at least until the strength for even that gave way and he fell against Aladdin.

“You almost got yourself killed,” said Aladdin, and it sounded somewhere between awed and horrified.

“So did you,” replied Mozenrath, and managed to inject some of his old scorn into it again. He felt warmth against his brow, and it took him a moment to realise that Aladdin was kissing him, and that the arms around him were shaking.

“Don’t do that,” said Aladdin softly. Though he would never admit it, Mozenrath knew that he had made the right choice.

Bodies could be mended, but a world made wrong could not so easily be set right.

 

 

Once, he had only intended to keep Aladdin so long as he was useful. A tool to help him undo the lock upon the Land of the Black Sands. He had kept telling himself that, when it was most appropriate, he would give up Aladdin in the same way that he had given up every other alliance, every other promise.

The time never came.


End file.
